


Family Found

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Tumblr Fics [25]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canonical character death - John, Found Families, Friendship, Gen, Literally he found his family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton thought his mother died in a hospital while DSS dragged him and his brother from her side. </p><p>Turns out.  He was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandahalfslytherins/gifts).



> For @writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle , because I write you too much pain and here's a bit of fluff.

John’s a devil on Alex’s shoulder.  Whispering in his ear from the other side. 

Alex has half-sober recollections of sitting in the sand with a gun at his hip.   _ What are you gonna do when you get out?  _ John had  asked.  

And Alex had replied,  _ I’m going to find my mom’s grave.  _

His best friend hadn’t laughed.  Hadn’t thought it was funny.  He merely asked why it took Alex this long to decide to do it, and Alex made up an excuse.  He didn’t really know.  But it’s not like the dead cared how long he took, so what did it matter?  He’d find it in his own time.  

_ I’ll help you,  _ John offered.  _  Promise.  _

Two weeks later, John’s caravan drove over a landmine and he died. Torn to shreds even as the ink dried on his letter releasing him from duty.  He was supposed to go home the Monday after.  Tour over.  Henry Laurens’ hero’s welcome for his son, turning into a funeral march instead. 

Turns out, Alex was wrong. 

The dead are impatient creatures. 

And the ghost of John Laurens is a force to be reckoned with.  In the first days after Alex found himself an apartment and called himself a civilian, it dug its claws into his consciousness and wouldn’t let him go.   _ Find the grave.  You promised to find the grave.  _

“Shut up John,” Alex complains into the mirror.  “You’re dead.”  John doesn’t reply, because John doesn’t exist.  John’s buried in a family plot with an obscene statue planted on top of him.  So gaudy was the memorial that Alex had to force himself to cry to hide his laughter.  John would have hated it.  And if his ghost was going to whisper in the back of Alex’s head, the least he could do was complain about his gravesite and not pester Alex into doing the impossible. 

‘Rachel Fawcett’ achieves no answers in google.  There are some Facebook pages here or there, but those aren’t helpful and Alex doesn’t read them.  His mother died well before Facebook became a thing.  

He searches obituaries.  Towns.  He looks through every online source he could find.  Even tracks down the hospital he  _ thinks  _ she was at before foster services came in and said that he needed to be taken away.  A single mother dying in a hospital could not care for her sons.  He remembers the floors were painted square tiles with black flecks along them.  He remembers that he tried to grab onto the doorframe as they pulled him from his mother’s room.  And the metal slipped from his fingers as he screamed desperately for his mother to tell them  _ No.  Please.  Don’t take my sons.  _

She never did. 

Alex shuts his laptop and leaves his apartment.  John’s promise to help feels like a halfway bond that never should have gone anywhere.  But there’s an obligation there that Alex struggles to overcome.  It was John’s last oath.  His offered vow to help Alex with this.  His desire to give him what he wanted.  Fulfilling it now feels self serving at best.  Alex doesn’t even know if it’s even worth it to track down his mother’s plot. 

He’s not sure if he had been entirely serious. 

His cellphone rings. 

General Washington.  Recently retired, and apparently running for office.  How’d Alex like to go back into a battle of a different kind? 

“Sure,” Alex replies, standing in the center of traffic as the cross-light turns red.  “Why not?” 

***

Of everyone in his family, Alex is the youngest.  His older brother James is a jerk, and his half-brother is best not to be talked about.  If Alex ever sees that prick again he’d likely punch him in the face.  Who changes their mind about taking in their freshly orphaned siblings right when they arrive at their doorstep? DSS workers standing by looking baffled?

Still.  James shows up every Thanksgiving like they cared enough about each other to have dinner together.  Alex can’t cook and James just likes getting drunk.  They find a dive bar and Alex pays for pitchers of beer as they dunk fried chicken into a spinach paste that supposedly tastes good.  

It’s different this year.  Not just because Alex is off from the army or that he’s dressed in a suit that’s become his second skin.  But because James doesn’t even pretend that Alex is going to be the one paying for it all.  Usually he at least offers to help with the tab.  “You know where ma’s buried?” Alex asks after James shoves a handful of fries into his mouth.  Smearing grease and salt along his cheeks.  

A waitress comes by and Alex makes a motion for the bill.  She nods just as James lets out a loud burp.  “Why the fuck would I know that?” 

“Figured you might have heard something.”  Connecting with James after the split was like trying to chase after a storm.  He knew he was going to get caught in a mess, and was likely going to get hurt for it, but he’d done it anyway.  Sometimes Alex feels like all he does is chase after people who’ve abandoned him. 

No.  That’s not fair.  James never abandoned him. 

He just didn’t put up much of a fight when DSS suggested they split up.  To make it easier to place.  “Why you digging into the past now?”  James asks, poking a fry in Alex’s direction as he wipes his face with the back of his hand.  

Alex shrugs.  “I promised someone I would.”  Not, strictly speaking, true.  But it felt most right to say.  There was a promise to be kept.  If it was John’s to him, or him to himself, it didn’t matter.  It's a promise so he'll do it.  

James’ hand smacks onto the table.  The glasses jump and salt scatters about the cracked wood.  “Who you promising shit to this time?” Their waitress stands awkwardly nearby.  Clutching the check like it’s her only lifeline.  Alex pulls out his wallet and thumbs out a few bills.  More than enough.  Too much.  

Washington pays him well. 

“I ain’t promising shit to anyone." He tosses the bills on to the table.  Check be damned.  "I just wanted to know where ma was buried.  Fuck you, and have a great rest of the year.”  Thanksgiving sucks, and Alex never wants to see it again.  He slides from the booth and only barely manages to repress the urge to fight back when James’ hand wraps around his wrist.  

In his head he can see everything he’s meant to do. How to break the hold.  How to slam James’ down onto the table.  Control the body.  Use the smallest amount of force wherever possible.  Alex can break his arm in a heartbeat if he wanted to. 

“Mom didn’t want us.  Either of us.  Same as dad.  So why don’t you just save yourself a lot of time and effort and give up on that bitch?  Go and save yourself some heartache in the end.” There’s a steely flint in James’ eyes, and Alex can’t help but move.  

Twist his wrist out of James’ grasp and flip the hold so he presses down on his brother’s arm right at the joint.  “Put your hands on me again and you’ll see what heartache feels like.” He lets his brother go, smiles at the waitress, and walks out. 

It’s snowing in New York. 

On Thanksgiving. 

Scowling, Alex shoves his hands into his pockets.  He wants to go home. 

***

One year fades to two.  Washington gets elected governor of Virginia and Alex buys himself a nice house not too far from the office.  Between his pension and his new salary, he’s making a good living.  He misses the hustle and bustle of New York, but Virginia has it’s moments.  It’s close to the capitol at least.  

On weekends, Alex drives over to DC.  Parks his car in a government lot and wanders about.  Strolls through the national mall and stares at the buildings.  _  What’s next?  What’s next?  What’s next?   _ He visits the memorials.  Stares at the mirrored wall of the Vietnam and imagines John Laurens staring back at him in disappointment. 

He keeps googling ‘Rachel Fawcett’ but it gets him nowhere. Facebook and craigslist and random postings here or there.  But nothing on a grave.  Nothing on a death or funeral.  Nothing on his mother. 

Serving as Washington’s Chief of Staff, he learns about the various government systems and databases.  Someone walks him through the different codes he needs or passwords he’ll have to keep track of.  He memorizes data and learns how to manipulate zeroes and ones until he gets what he wants.  It’s easy enough. 

Some of it even feels like he’s in the military again.  Expanding his mind so he can figure out exactly what he needs to do in order to get the mission done.  He reads books on computer technology and interfaces.  Uses his down time to take classes and the local university and collects credits and degrees. 

Alex learns how to hack, and John’s voice whispers in his ear.   _ You’re a government official.  Just look her up.  _

And on a late night at the office, when no one else is around, he does just that.  It’s easier to search backwards than forwards.  He types in his name.  Finds his own birth records.  Eventually manages to find his mother’s information and documentation.  

He’s not, strictly speaking, allowed to do this.  It’s an enormous breach of privacy and he could get fired for it let alone the potential for jail time he'd be facing.  Still.  He keeps looking.  Green card, visa, naturalization, and social security number slowly yet surely becoming available.  There’s an income tax return on file. 

It’s dated for last year.  Alex's fingers stop.  His breath hitches.  He confirms all his data matches up, then looks at the address.   _You have to be kidding me...._

Copying it down, just to be sure, Alex c loses out of everything and goes to google. 

Typing in ‘Rachel Fawcett', he clicks the first link.  The one for Facebook.  The profile picture is of something vague.  A beach somewhere.  But when he scrolls through the other images in her album, he feels a headache coming on.  There's a picture of a woman.  A beautiful woman who looks just like him. 

His mother’s alive.  And has been this whole time. 

***

He texts James. 

_ When did you know ma was alive?  _

James doesn’t text back. 

Fuck him too. 

***

“Plans,” Alex tells John’s gaudy statue late at night when the Big House has gone to sleep and it’s just them, “have decidedly changed.”  He’s got to be quick.  Technically he broke in here and didn’t tell Henry that he was coming by.  Technically the security that patrols the Laurens estate will probably be here soon.  Technically John Laurens is an asshole and shouldn’t have died days before they were due to go home. 

“Why didn’t she want me?” Alex asks the statue.  God, they gave John angel wings.  He’s dressed like a saint.  Toga and all.  His purple heart and bronze star are carved into the marble below his feet.  Alex is half tempted to strap a rifle on the angel’s back and tuck a pack of cigarettes between its fingers.  At least that would be more accurate.  John could do with a smoke. 

A dog starts barking, security on its way.  Alex glares at the statue.  “You’re absolutely no help at all.” 

_ Go talk to her,  _ John’s voice tells him from beyond the grave.  

_ “You  _ talk to her,” Alex snaps back.  He starts trotting off the property.  Next time, he’s bringing some devil horns and a tail.  At least then the angel will look right. 

***

Rachel Fawcett lives in a tiny little house in South Carolina.  Not far from John’s family home.  The irony isn’t lost on Alex.  Not one bit.  

He walks up the stairs to his mother’s house and he knocks on the front door.  He shifts his weight from foot to foot.  Then stops.   Puts himself back into military position.  Calm breath in.  Calm breath out.  Breathe.  

The door opens.  Breathing doesn’t quite work.  He breaks position and bites his lip.  For a moment, they just stare at each other.  But then her eyes widen.  Her hand raises to her mouth.  They both reach the same conclusion.  They haven't imagined this.    She’s his mother.  He’s her son.  “Alex?” she asks slowly, and he can’t help himself.  He nods his head and crumples into her arms. 

She’s crying, and he’s crying.   _ Stop crying, damn it, get up.  _ He’s supposed to be a soldier.  Someone tough and strong.  Someone who can prove he’s not just a little kid anymore.  But it’s his mom.  And she’s alive.  And he wanted her to be alive forever.  And now here she is.  

He doesn’t understand. 

Rachel leads him into the house.  She doesn’t seem to know what she’s doing.  She latches onto his hand and makes vague gestures here or there, but she can’t seem to place what her end goal is.  She just loiters awkwardly.  “This is the kitchen and…” She stops.  Stares up at him.  Starts crying again. 

There are lots of tears.  

“Can I get you something?  Anything?  Coffee?  Tea?  Lord above, you’re _more_ than old enough to drink now.  I don’t have much.  I think...scotch?  Rum?” She keeps touching his shoulders.  His arms.  His face.  She cups his cheeks and he nods his head at anything and everything because she’s here. 

He’s here. 

John’s a dick who’s probably laughing at him from hell.  

Gravestone, he’d told John.  He wanted to visit a gravestone.  Not a living memorial of all the pain he thought he had let go of.  “Why didn’t you want me?” he blurts out. 

And she flinches.  She flinches and she drops the glass she meant to get from her cupboard.  But it’s plastic and just bounces.  Tumbling along until it comes to a halt under the fridge.  He thinks he should apologize.  That’s the polite thing to do.  He had a speech in his head.  Something he’d developed while leaving John’s hideous memorial. 

It vanished the moment he saw her.  Leaving him helpless before her in all the worst ways. “Take a seat, son.”  Alex sits.  Rachel sits across from him.  She takes his hand.  “Ask me what you want to know.” 

“When did you get better?” 

“I left the hospital three months after they took you and James.”  She sits awkwardly in her chair.  Her small shoulders hunched low.  Her messy hair hanging in her face.  She’s smaller than he remembers her being.  She used to look so big to him.  He’s grown up. 

“I thought you were dead.”  She presses her lips together and hunkers into her seat.  She doesn’t make eye contact.  Just presses her fingers to her lips.  

Thin wrists, with almost translucent skin, are wrapped with a frail chain of gold.  “I...did not become financially or physically capable of caring for a home or household for another two years.  I-I stayed in halfway houses.  Shelters.  The medicines...I had no money.  And when I got a job.  It took me time to get a home? Where I could care for you.” 

Two years...around then he would have been fifteen.  James was seventeen.  Alex had been staying with the Stephens then.  Playing with Ned Stephens and dreaming of being a soldier.  Of fighting in a war.  Of proving he could be more than just an orphaned street rat with no place to call home.  

“They told me where you were,” Rachel continues quietly.  “A nice house.  A good family.”  The Stephens _had_ been good people.  He’d been lucky.  More lucky than James.  Who bounced place to place before aging out and going nowhere fast.  Alex had begged Ned’s father to let James stay with them, but the man had refused.  One was more than enough. 

They’d offered to adopt Alex though.  Not too long after.  Alex had taken a certain level of satisfaction in looking at their one true born son and spitting out  _ one is more than enough.   _ Ned's parents hadn't been happy with the response, but he didn't care.   When he left, he never looked back.  Some doors are best kept closed. 

“I thought you’d be better there...with them...you had a home.  Money.  Clothes.  You seemed well.  The service workers...they said you were top of your class.  At a good school.  A school I couldn’t afford to send you too.  You had friends.” 

He did have friends.  And all of that.  And he did well for himself afterwards.  He joined the army.  Rose all the way up to Sergeant First Class too. Faster than a speeding bullet if Washington was to be believed.  He should have been an officer.  Everyone always told him that. 

Alex wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to say now, though.  They sat there in the kitchen.  Staring at each other.  And Alex fidgets.  Scratches his nose.  “Do you...do you want me now?” he asks quietly.  He’ll leave if not.  If she wants separation...he’ll leave. 

Rachel cries though.  Cries and nods her head.  “Please.  Please tell me how you’ve been?” 

Alex nods his head, and starts to speak.  “I was in the army…” 

His mother is enraptured. 

_ Fine,  _ Alex thinks as he tells his mother war stories.   _ John can keep his angel’s wings.   _

_ For now.  _


	2. Chapter 2

The first night after he reconnected with his mother, Alexander had gone back to John’s grave and gave the angel a pack of cigarettes to hold while burying another for Henry hopefully never to find.  He engages in awkward small talk with John’s sister on his way off the property, and she arches a brow at him and asks what he’s doing in South Carolina.  He has no idea what to say to her. 

“Just wanted to visit John,” he excuses awkwardly.  “It’s easier to talk to his tombstone.” 

Martha Laurens groans loudly.  “God that tombstone….he’d hate it.” 

Lowering his voice, Alex leans in.  Asks, “Just what was Henry thinking?” 

The young woman just shrugs her shoulders and looks at him helplessly.  “I have no idea.”  She promises not to tell her father about the cigarettes, but does warn him Henry will find out eventually.  Alex doesn’t expect they’ll be stay forever, but so long as John gets the message he’ll be happy.  

“Seriously though...wings?” They share a few light-hearted giggles before Martha hugs him close and tells him not to be a stranger.  Alex promises and gives her a brief salute before hurrying on his way. 

He has a lot of explaining to do. 

***

When Alex first went on tour, John had been his bunk mate.  John kept a battered copy of Harry Potter with him that first year.  And when Alex admitted he had never read the series, John rotated out his copy for the next in line.  Alex is not ashamed to say that they bonded over crumpled pages of wizardry and magic.  Some of the others in their unit even joined in the fun. 

They played a haphazard game of Quidditch once, using a duct taped roll of laundry as the quaffle and their fastest sprinters as the snitch and seekers.  It was all fun and games until a fight broke out over who caught the snitch first.  Fists went flying and trying to explain that all to Washington had been more embarrassing than it was ultimately worth in the end. 

Still, Alex long suspected that Washington had a sense of humor hidden behind that pinched expression of his.  He gave them all verbal reprimands and told them to keep it civil, and nothing went in their permanent records. A blessing, really.  Alex had no desire to explain that his one red mark came from  _ Quidditch  _ of all things. 

Martha sent John copies of the movies when they came out too.  They loaded them up on their unit mate, Ben’s, laptop.  Everyone gathered around to watch Harry go through puberty while bombs were falling only a few miles away.  

Here’s the thing. 

John  _ hated  _ the New Dumbledore™.   _ Hated  _ him.  He refused to call him anything except the New Dumbledore™.  John also had one of those senses of humor that tended to only be funny if you were in on the joke.  And whenever something went wrong, no matter what it was, he would run across the tent to snatch the poor soul’s arm.  Shouting, “ALEXANDER DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIRE!?!” 

Swapping out names depending on who he was attacking and in what circumstance he was involved.  Humorously, it caught on.  Something that their unit took more than a little pride in using on and off the field.  John had a strange way of inspiring people.  Usually only used to either break the mood or to soften the blow, Alex always enjoyed the saying. 

He still can’t watch the Harry Potter movies anymore without feeling incredibly heart sick. 

Either way, when Alexander sneaks back into his office Monday morning, settling into his desk chair and getting ready for work that day, he nearly jumps out of his skin when his office door slams open.  Washington strolls in, and marches across the room toward him.  “Alexander did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

_ Fuuuuuck.  _ Panic comes first.  Then redirection.  He doesn’t know what’s best.  “Whatever it is, Jefferson started it.”  Everything can usually be blamed on Jefferson in any case.  

“Jefferson compelled you to hack into government records?” Washington asks towering over Alex’s desk.  

He winces.  Bad move then.  “No-not  _ precisely— _ it was more of.  Well.  The thing is…” Washington’s glaring at him.  Alex fumbles.  Flushes.  Wilts.  “I was looking up my mother.” 

At the very least, the ire fades off of Washington’s face.  He raises a brow.  Sits down across from Alex, and gestures for Alex to sit as well.  After serving under Washington for a decade, and now working directly for him as Chief of Staff, Alex likes to think they’re close.  Maybe not  _ friends,  _ but close. 

It gives him a chance to explain.  And thankfully, Washington listens.  “She’s still alive?” he asks wondrously as Alex finishes his tale.  

Alex fishes out his cell phone and passes it over.  Shows him the picture he took of his mother while he was there.  Washington holds it like it’s something to be treasured, and smiles up at him.  “Congratulations,” he tells Alex gently.  “You’re still suspended for a week.” 

It’s far less than he deserves.  “Thank you, sir.” 

“Go spend it with your mother.” 

Alex flushes at the comment, but he does what he’s told.  Spending time with his mother.  What a novel idea. 

***

The unintended consequence of having his mother back in his life, is that she mothers him.  Strange, but true.  Alex is not used to getting phone calls asking how he’s doing.  To getting reminders when he works late that he needs to eat something.  To coming home and finding a home cooked meal, because he invited her to stay with him when her house got condemned for an asbestos violation. 

He doesn’t mind.  In fact, he likes it.  It’s heartwarming in a strange way.  His utter failure to produce anything edible in the kitchen was a talent that the army  _ did not  _ help to break.  “I can make a mean MRE,” he tells Rachel once she sets down a beef stew (a  _ beef stew!)  _ in front of him. 

Washington has been encouraging him to spend time with his mother.  Even suggesting he take more time off if he needs to.  He’s perfectly content to continue working the way he has been, though.  He doesn’t want to get out of practice.  Still, it’s nice.  His mom meets him for lunch sometimes.  She’ll make him something at home and they’ll eat it together in the local park.  Enjoying Richmond as best they can. 

For all their bickering  _ in  _ the office, even Jefferson stopped teasing him about his lunch dates with his mother once he heard the story.  Apparently it offended Jefferson’s southern sensibilities to tease a man for reconnecting with their long lost parent after being split up for over a decade. 

“Have you spoken to James?” Alex asks Rachel as they eat together side by side.  

He thinks he can already guess what she’ll say.  The more he replays James’ anger over Thanksgiving, the more he suspects James always knew that their mother was alive.  “He...doesn’t wish to speak with me,” she confirms.  Alex can’t even say that he’s surprised by the response.  He just keeps eating his mother’s culinary delights.  Chewing slowly. 

“What...about my dad?”  That, Rachel takes her time in answering.  Eventually, though, she sighs. 

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since before I fell ill.  He never responded when I tried to reach out to him.”  And they hadn’t been sent to live with him after she’d gotten sick.  Which means  _ he’d  _ turned  _ them _ down too.  

“Why’d he leave?” Alex asks.  But if his mother knows the real reason James Hamilton Sr. left, she doesn’t say. 

***

“I’d like to put my name in the Goblet of Fire again,” Alex tells Washington almost a week later.  He steps into the man’s office and closes the door before he starts in on his explanation.  Watching as Washington slowly lowers the paperwork he’d been reviewing back to his desk. 

Washington folds his hands in front of him.  Listens as Alex explains his thoughts and concerns.  He wants to see his father.  Wants to talk to him.  Wants to understand why his father abandoned them all those years ago, and if there’s a chance at reconciling that gap now.  “It’s not like your mother,” Washington warns.  “Your mother didn’t have a choice.” 

_ She did have a choice,  _ Alex thinks in response.   _ She had a choice to come back, and she chose not to because she thought we were better off.   _ If his father thought they were better off without  _ him... _ maybe now he could prove the opposite. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Washington sighs.  His expression is pinched.  He’s not happy about it.  “Don’t hack into anything this time.” 

Alex resists the urge to flush.  “I came to you first...that has to count for something doesn’t it?” 

A thick finger directs him toward the door.  He leaves without another word. 

***

While Alex waits for news from Washington, he busies himself with trying to find Rachel a permanent place to live.  A new job she can do that she’d be happy at.  She gets work at a local library stacking books, and reading to the children’s group.  She cannot contain her excitement each night when she comes home to tell him about what she’d done that day.  Nor, can she resist introducing him to the beautiful Elizabeth Schuyler who not only leads the youth sessions, but is the president of the local YMCA’s after school sessions for underprivileged children. 

“She’s got a degree in child services and early childhood education,” Rachel reports with a twinkle in her eye.  Alex’s mouth opens and closes uselessly as he tries to work out exactly what he’s meant to say to that.  

The devil on his shoulder tells him he should go to see if Elizabeth’s hot. 

She is.

She’s  _ gorgeous.   _ Alex’s heart feels like it’s grown three sizes.  He’s bursting with a sudden feeling of fidelity toward the Grinch.  He bends over and kisses her hand in front of all the children, if only to call her a fair maiden and watch as her cheeks turn pink.  The children shriek in delight, and he’s cast as the prince in their next play act of Rapunzel. 

He even helps color in the castles on their cardstock to pin up for the background of their production.  “You come here often?” he asks her.  Like a tool.  She rolls her eyes, but smiles.  

“Twelve to eight,” she tells him brightly.  “Monday through Friday.  Then eight to four on weekends.” 

“You work overtime?” A lot of overtime apparently. 

Elizabeth,  _ call me Eliza,  _ shrugs.  “Some parents don’t have days off.  I have a swing shift with one of the other girls who works on staff.  I’ll do one day off a week, but then hop back if needed.  Gotta keep the rascals occupied.” 

That she does.  She does it well too.  Alex can’t help but watch as she plays piano and teaches them songs.  Her group is mostly funded by charitable contributions, donations, and government subsidizing.  Most parents can’t afford to give much, but if they can they will.  Alex is almost positive she’s a saint. 

_ She’s way too good for you,  _ John’s voice whispers in the back of his head.  He’s absolutely right.  Telling Eliza it was great to meet her, he bows his head and bids all the children farewell. 

Rachel only seems slightly disappointed that he didn’t ask Eliza for her number.  Honestly, he’s only glad that she didn’t pressure him more.  Flopping onto his bed that night, he stares up at the ceiling. Rotating the business card Eliza had given him when he asked about her group.   _ Still,  _ John whispers,  _ you deserve to be happy.  _

Happiness, Alex finds, tends to be fleeting. He tucks the card into his wallet, and goes to sleep.

***

James Hamilton Sr., according to Washington, lives in Jacksonville, Florida.  “Who the hell lives in Florida?” Alex asks as he squints at the documentation.  There are a few photos here or there, but generally speaking it’s just words on a page.  His father hasn’t aged well, but Alex can see his brother in the man’s face.  Knows it’s him. 

Washington sighs audibly and fixes himself a drink.  They’re sitting in the man’s office after hours.  Alex won’t tell anyone Washington keeps a tumbler under his desk if you won’t.   “Young man, millions of people live in Florida so watch your mouth.” 

“C’mon, sir.  Even  _ you  _ hate Florida.”  After hours, Alex has no qualms in pushing their relationship just a touch.  It earns him a snorting laugh and a head shake.  Success.  

“It is...disagreeably humid in Florida…” Washington allows.  Alex’s grin is savage on the return.  Damn right it is.  The beaches may be nice, but fuck that humidity. 

Still.  The paperwork sits in Alex’s hands.  Name, address, life.  Alex looks at the paperwork and feels none of the same hope and excitement and intrigue he’d felt with Rachel.  “You don’t have to do anything with it, you know,” Washington tells him softly. 

“I should see him,” Alex replies.  If only once.  If just to ask the same question he asked his mother.  “I don’t really know what to say…” 

“Well if it’s any help, I bought these for you.”  A pair of baseball tickets.  Minor league.  One of the teams playing are the Charleston Riverdogs.  Alex’s fingers tighten around them.   _ John grew up right outside of Charleston… _ “It’s a bit out of the ways of Florida.  Three hours or so.  But...it’ll give you time to talk.” 

“Thank you, sir.”  No point in saying the man didn’t have to do this.  He already knew.  

***

Unlike with Rachel, Alex actually follows through with his plans for James Sr.  He squints at the apartment buzzers and slides his hand down all of them in one go.  Unsurprised when he gets buzzed in without even a call down for verification.  From there he takes the stairs up to the sixth floor.  Knocks on 6G and waits for it to open. 

“I’m Alexander Hamilton,” he introduces himself to his father once he has the man in front of him.  James Sr. stares at him.  “We are going to a baseball game and I am not actually really giving you a choice. I have already bought the tickets.”

James Sr. stares.  His hair is a mess.  His beer gut is massive.  His skin is splotchy.  Clothes stained. The tickets loiter in the space between Alex and his father.  Entirely ignored as they inspect each other.  “You look like your mother,” James Sr. tells him at long last. 

“Thank you,” his mother’s gorgeous.  He’ll take that compliment.  "You should get dressed.” 

“I had things to do,” James Sr. refutes.  

“Cancel them.  I’m your son.” 

“Yeah, and I seem to recall leaving you in that shithole with the rest of the shit I didn’t want in my life.”  Well.  Alex’s hand drops to his side.  The edges of the tickets digging into his palms.  At least that answered that question.  

He supposes it was never going to end perfectly.  Still.  There’s a stab of pain in his chest that spears through him.  “Why didn’t you want us?” he asks.  

John’s whispering in the back of his head,  _ Because he’s a fucking asshole prick.  Punch his lights out.  He deserves it.  _

“You’re not even mine,” James Sr. snapped.  “Something your whore mother—”

“—Don’t talk about my mother like that.” 

_ Punch him,  _ the devil insists.   _ Punch him.  _

James Sr. Snarls in disgust.  “Get out of here.  I never want to see you again.”  

“I just want to talk.  I have tickets—” he tries holding them up again, but James slaps his wrist out of the way. 

Really.  It’s knee-jerk.  But when all is said and all is done, Alex has no doubt he’ll probably never see his father again. 

***

He does still go to the baseball game though.  When he’s finished cleaning the blood off his knuckles and is left massaging them on his own.  He doesn’t particularly care for baseball.  Once, he and John did a pick up game after their short lived attempts at Quidditch failed.  The sirens had started going off somewhere in the second inning and then missles started falling and—

Alex presses his hand to his face.  What a complete waste of his life.  

“...Mr….Hamilton, right?” His hand drops to his side.  Blinking, he stares at the vision Eliza Schuyler makes.  Wearing a striped baseball shirt, jeans, and a hat declaring her a Riverdogs’ fan. She has a massive popcorn and hotdog in each hand. 

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” he blurts out.  She laughs.  Motions toward the seat next to him.  His father’s seat.  He welcomes her into it.  

“My little sister, Peggy, lives in South Carolina.  She’s a massive baseball fan and is trying to set up a South Carolina Fastpitch team.” He has no idea what she’s talking about, but he accepts some popcorn when she offers it.  “What about you?” 

“Met my dad today,” Alex says awkwardly.  He smiles.  Expression weak.  “He didn’t want to come.” Eliza’s expression falls.  She looks down at the empty seat she’d acquired, and then back up at him.  Emotion starts swelling within his body, and he hisses.  Turns away.  “I should go…” 

“No, no.  Stay.  Fuck him.”  Alex blinks.  He hadn’t taken her as one for cursing.  “Be spiteful,” she counsels.  Passing him a hotdog, she flags down one of the vendors to get her another.  “And have a great time.” 

_ Now...that’s what I’m talking about!  _ John gloats proudly in the back of his head. 

Alex takes a big bite out of his hot dog and settles in.  “So tell me about Peggy’s Fastpitch stuff?” 

They talk for hours. 

***

Alex has a bit of a skip to his step when he gets back to work.  Washington smiles at him when he walks through the door, and Alex smiles back.  He tosses his bag onto his desk, and then heads to the man’s office.  “It went well I take it?” Washington asks. 

“It went horribly.  I may have punched him,” Alex admits.  His knuckles didn’t break, thankfully. 

“You what?” 

“It’s a blur, sir, but I met a girl at the game—”

Washington holds up a hand, and Alex’s mouth falls silent.  “You  _ may _ have  _ punched  _ your father?” 

_ Technically,  _ it had been a soldier reflex.  Call and response.  You get hit you hit back.   _ Technically,  _ Alex had restrained himself from hitting James Sr. until he’d been hit first.   _ Technically,  _ Alex didn’t have a leg to stand on.  He just really didn’t like being hit. “He called my mother a whore.” 

Washington presses his hand to his nose.  Pinches it and shakes his head.  “Please tell me you’re not satisfied with that?” 

“No, but I _am_ satisfied with the date I got at the baseball game.  Thank you, sir.” He smiles brightly and gets the finger pointed at the door again.  Alex is laughing even as he retreats.  Sometimes, it’s a great deal of fun to pull on Washington’s tailfeathers.  One day, he’ll do it again. 

***

Rachel apologizes to Alex when he tells her what happened with his father, though.  She tells him that she didn’t know what to say.  How to explain.  “Is James Hamilton really my father?” Alex asks. 

“He is.”  But he never believed her.  And he never will know that he made a mistake.  Alex huffs and rolls his eyes.  He tells his mother that he’s not upset.  That he doesn’t care about that.  He just wanted to know. 

He holds her.  Thanks her.  It’s all very simple. 

Thanksgiving is coming around soon, and frankly, he has plans for this year.  Eliza and Rachel are a part of it.  Sometimes things work out.  Sometimes they don’t.  But from where he’s standing, he thinks he made out better than most. 


End file.
